


Pitch Perfect

by a_gay_poster



Category: Naruto
Genre: AU: What if Naruto were an All-Girls Sports Anime?, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Awkward Sexual Situations, F/F, Marathon Lesbian Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, semi-safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:36:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22659454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_gay_poster/pseuds/a_gay_poster
Summary: There’s an ocean inside Gaara, but she fills it up with the things scattered around these few small rooms - a handful of meticulously cared-for houseplants, squares of bittersweet dark chocolate, trashy romance novels she reads under the blanket with a flashlight even though she lives alone - so she never sees the bottom of it. She can’t know how deep it is.(Extremely self-indulgent modern college sports AU PWP. Harold, they're lesbians.)
Relationships: Gaara/Rock Lee
Comments: 12
Kudos: 97





	Pitch Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to [Whazzername](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whazzername) for the title! 
> 
> Written for a smut prompt fill on Tumblr. The prompt was: "When I look at you all I can see are the mistakes we’re going to make. (The future’s so bright.)"

Gaara watches Lee for almost two hours before she recognizes her. 

Gaara rubs her nose, rendered puffy and pink by the pollen clustering in the air, and sniffs. She’s standing in the dugout, watching the Suna University softball team get absolutely destroyed by their ostensible rivals, the Konoha Katydids. With one eye on the scoreboard, the other on the water cooler that she’s meant to make sure is properly refreshed with little paper cones, it doesn’t seem like much of a rivalry at all. 

There’s less than half an inning left, and even if Temari magically pulls a whole new team roster out from her sports bag, they don’t stand a chance of winning. As in, literally, they don’t even have the potential to catch up, because Konoha is last at-bat. Gaara took on the team manager role to avoid further injury - after an ill-timed fastpitch took out her shoulder her senior year of high school - but she hadn’t accounted for wounds to her dignity. 

The final Konoha batter steps up to the plate, her cap shadowing her face from the spring sun. When she slings her bat back over her shoulder, her lean forearms flex. Gaara has watched her run circles around the Suna team all afternoon. That, at least, Gaara’s not complaining about. The batter is gorgeous - all long lines and dusky skin and thick, black hair that’s so straight and shiny Gaara can’t help but wonder if she flat-irons it. There’s something about her, too, that clings at Gaara’s memory, like tufts of wool caught in a briar patch - something about the way she stomps the ground during her practice swings that reminds Gaara of nobody so much as _Lee_. Gaara chews a raw patch on her lower lip, tasting blood and chapstick, and pretends it’s allergies that make her eyes heat at that thought. It’s a ridiculous notion, anyway. Lee wasn’t planning on going to college, the last time they had talked. She wasn’t even sure if she could hack it at the local community college, planned on going to work at her mom’s gym after high school. And Lee had never carried herself with such confidence, not like this girl, who Gaara has watched stand, shoulders straight, in the visiting team’s dugout, laughing with her head thrown back. 

Temari winds up a pitch. Her eyes are steely with frustration. If Gaara knows her sister (and she does), once Temari gets back to her apartment, she’ll probably disable all her notifications so she can angry-cry in privacy. She throws the ball like she’s spitting a curse, but the pitch flies true. 

The Konoha batter swings, and with a _crack_ , the ball sails high. At second base, Matsuri trips over her own feet to stumble after it. The batter rounds first, passing close to the dugout, the lean muscles of her thighs bulging beneath the clean white of her pants as she runs. Dust kicks up behind her, like steam from a freight engine that’s running right over the Suna team. A little pulse of heat runs through Gaara. She fidgets with the waistband of her slacks, cutting into the flesh rolling over the band of her panties. Lack of exercise and the dining hall’s 24-hour waffle bar have been less than charitable; she’s put on her freshman fifteen (and her sophomore fifteen, and now she’s working on her junior fifteen in advance). It doesn’t bother her, exactly, but it does mean she has a whole drawer stuffed with clothes she’s outgrown in less than two years. The collar of her polo feels suddenly too tight and she tugs at it, lips pursed. 

The Konoha player waiting on third passes the home plate, and the team goes up in cheers. It’s frankly unsportsmanlike; they already knew they’d won. Temari scowls and spits into the dust of the pitcher’s mound. Seconds later - god, she is _fast_ \- the batter rounds third and tears for home. Matsuri is still fumbling the ball to hand for a toss to Temari, but it’s too late. The batter crosses the home plate, and the Konoha team loses their wits to cheering.

“Yeah, Lee!” one girl is shouting, jumping up on the batter’s back. _Did she say- ?_ The batter laughs, spinning her teammate in circles. A rotten little peach pit of jealousy settles in Gaara’s belly. The things she wouldn’t give to be hoisted up in strong arms, to feel that type of closeness…. The batter leans her head back, and her cap falls to the grass. Gaara’s heart stutters to a stop. 

The batter looks up at Gaara from across the field. She grins, straight white teeth in a Cupid’s bow mouth. Gaara’s fingers go cold on the dugout’s fencing. _There’s no way …_

The batter - _Lee_ , it has to be - sets her teammate down. She lifts her hand and waves, arm swinging so hard that her teammate has to duck out of the way. Gaara fans her fingers weakly in response, eyes caught between staring into middle distance and staring at the way Lee’s legs flex as she jogs over - _oh shit, she’s coming over_ \- !

Lee draws up in front of the dugout, beaming. 

“Gaara, hey!” Her voice is muffled as she tugs off her batting gloves with her teeth, exposing long, knobby fingers. Gaara would recognize those fingers anywhere: the neatly trimmed arcs of Lee’s fingernails, the jut of her knuckles as she shakes her hands out. “Um, is this a bad time?”

Gaara blinks herself back alert, tearing her eyes away from from Lee’s hands. 

“No, I- “ She clears her throat, eyes finding Lee’s face. It’s no less distracting: long eyelashes bracket her wide, dark eyes, and her thick eyebrows are furrowed in concern. Gaara’s stomach churns, a heady combination of attraction and nausea. “Hi, Lee. It’s been a while.”

“It’s been way too long!” Lee exclaims. “Can I- ?” She gestures to the dugout and leans forward, arms spread. Gaara hesitates, not quite sure what Lee’s asking. 

“I have to pack up,” Gaara blurts. “And sweep.” 

Lee’s face falls, soft lips forming a pout. Her hands drop to her sides and her mouth parts around the first _S_ of an apology. 

“Don’t worry about it, kiddo,” Temari interrupts. When Gaara turns to look at her, she’s scanning the space between the two of them with narrowed eyes. She doesn’t look directly at Gaara when she says, “Go, catch up. I gotta go give their captain a little lesson in sportsmanship, anyway.” 

She gestures with her chin to the Konoha team captain, who’s finger-combing her hair out from a spiky ponytail across the field. Behind Temari, the Suna team snickers into their sports bags. She whips around to look at them with her eyebrow raised, and Yukata drops a handful of bats to cover up the cough of, “Suuure.” 

Gaara looks back at Lee, awaiting her response. Whatever confidence Lee carried when she jogged over here, it fizzles away under Gaara’s stare and her teammates’ titters. 

“I probably don’t have a lot of time,” Lee starts. “I need to help my team pack up, too, but- “ 

She looks over her shoulder across the field, eyebrows raised hopefully. Her team waves her on as one, with a gesture like a single organism. The girl who jumped on her back earlier gives a cheesy thumbs-up and an exaggerated wink that’s apparent from the opposite side of the field. Lee’s shoulders sag in relief. 

“I need to shower first.” She sniffs herself and grimaces. “But then I was going to go get some food. We could go together?” 

Gaara nods slowly, struggling to get her mental wheels spinning again after the dual assaults of the thought of the smell of Lee’s sweat and the mental image of her showering. 

Lee’s grin widens. There’s a red flush creeping up her cheeks that wasn’t there after the game. 

“Do you know anywhere good to eat around here?”

“Yeah.” Gaara finds her voice, but it comes out gravelly. “I can drive us. My treat, since you obliterated us.” 

“That’s not necessary- !” 

Gaara shoulders past her before she can finish her sentence, legs moving mechanically. “The showers are this way.” When she brushes past Lee’s chest, she catches a whiff of her deodorant. The scent grabs her like a hand fisted in her hair. Lee still smells just the same - like the high school locker room, like Irish Spring soap and the salt of sweat, like fresh linen Secret and menthol lotion and damp cotton, clean and athletic and distracting. Blood rushes in Gaara’s ears, hard and fast enough that she doesn’t hear whatever Lee has to say next. She sucks in a breath and holds it as Lee falls into step behind her. 

Gaara has no reason to shower, since she’s done nothing but stand idly in the dugout all afternoon, but she briefly considers lying, if only for the opportunity to stand one stall apart from Lee. She indulges herself for a moment in the daydream of the two of them blanketed in heat and steam, just a thin sheet of metal between them, Gaara listening to the pathways the water makes over Lee’s slim curves. The spring sun is warm, after all, and her meticulous notes of her team’s (abysmal) game statistics could charitably be considered _hard work_. 

She stands in the hallway instead, propped up against the cinderblock, feeling every inch her awkward high-school self. She pretends to check her email until Lee vanishes behind the whitewashed partition that separates the girls’ lockers from the hallway proper, then quickly switches to her phone’s front-facing camera. She ruffles her fingers through her hair, hoping to bring it back into a shape more closely resembling its intended pixie cut and less like a homemade hack-job flattened by the band of her visor. She licks her thumb and rubs at the skin beneath her eyes to do away with the raccoon eyes caused by cheap eyeliner inexpertly applied to combination skin. It doesn’t do anything for her sleepless dark circles, but it’s the thought that counts. She undoes the second button of her polo, tugs it down so there’s a hint of cleavage showing, then - _no, that looks like she’s trying too hard_ \- buttons it again with fumbling fingers, smoothing the fabric back into place, formless and anonymous. 

Then all she has to do is wait (and try not to think about how the soap must look sliding down Lee’s skin, how her long fingers must be slipping through that dark hair, how the water would sluice down the space between her breasts …) 

“Are you ready?” 

Gaara jolts up from staring at the same email she’s been blindly scanning for the past ten minutes. Lee’s wet hair is in a high bun, and a thin tendril of hair curls in front of her ear, trailing water down her neck. There’s a fluffy white gym towel around her shoulders, and she’s wearing a ribbed tank top that exposes the cut of her biceps. Her skin is hot-water-pink, and the air around them smells like warm steam and mouthwash. Gaara’s breathing goes a little uneven. 

“Yes,” she says, too breathily. She licks the corner of one chapped lip. 

“Where are we going?” 

“Do you still like curry?” Gaara ventures. Anxiety prickles under her ribcage and worms its sharp fingers into her intercostal muscles. 

“Do I?!” 

There’s a beat, Gaara finds herself staring upwards at the damp cling of Lee’s thick bangs to her forehead. Has she hit a growth spurt, or has Gaara just never seen her stand with proper posture before, back straight with an easy confidence that can’t possibly be so easily won? She’s smiling, still, and the skin across the bridge of her nose wrinkles just barely in mirth. It’s hard to resist the urge to touch. 

“. . . Do you?”

Lee hiccups a little giggle. Her eyes flutter closed with it, those long, dark eyelashes only made longer and darker by the water still caught in them. The break in eye contact is a breath of reprieve; Gaara grabs it like a liferaft and wills her heart to slow. 

“Yes,” Lee says, finding her words again. Her smile softens. Gaara melts, finds herself listing forward despite herself. “It’s still my favorite.” 

Lee walks beside her across the parking lot to Gaara’s eminently practical sedan, close enough that their fingers are just centimeters from brushing. She talks the whole way, recounting the game blow-by-blow, that smile never leaving her lips. Gaara can’t stop watching her, so busy studying her face that she almost loses her balance over a bumper block. 

There’s something _different_ about Lee now, something Gaara can’t place. She’s changed, grown into herself in the past three years, maybe. Despite her enthusiasm, the passion with which she clenches her fists as she recaps the final inning as if Gaara hadn’t been standing right there, she seems _grown up_. Or maybe it’s that Gaara hasn’t grown at all. 

Gaara shuffles all her detritus into the backseat - a half-dozen travel coffee mugs in varying shades of stained, a wrinkled draft of a term paper, a leather folder full of resumes for next week’s career fair, a fistful of half-dried highlighters - and almost bumps right into Lee when she crawls backward out of the passenger seat. Lee lays a steadying hand on her shoulder. _When did she get so close?_

Gaara squares her shoulders and gives Lee a look that she hopes conveys that she’s got her shit way more together than she actually does. Lee’s lips part, just slightly, her cheeks darkening. Her gym towel hangs slack in her hand. Gaara has to duck past one broad shoulder to make way for Lee to clamber into the passenger seat, close enough that her elbow bumps Lee’s bare arm. 

She tries not to think about how soft and warm the skin of Lee’s arm is as she puts the car into drive, as much as she tries not to think about how close her hand is to the muscle of Lee’s bare thigh. Her legs are sturdy - runner’s muscles - with a tanline that Gaara’s thumb itches to stroke, just below the hem of her rucked-up gym shorts. Her knees are spread, casually, so the knee of one long leg almost bumps the console, in a way that makes Gaara’s thoughts hurtle uncontrollably to a much different scenario, one in which Lee’s knees are parted _deliberately_ , for her. 

Gaara’s fingers strangle the gearshift in a death grip. In the fifteen-minute drive to the curry place, she leaves little crescent-moon marks in the plastic. 

The restaurant is a budget arrangement, popular with the students, the type of place that tends to occupy and later overrun college towns, but there’s not too much of a line at the counter. After they order, the girl behind the register studies the scant distance between them and asks, “Together or separate?”

“Uh- “ Lee starts, hands patting her pockets for her wallet.

“Together,” Gaara says, and adjusts her body just a little, so her shoulder is in front of Lee’s torso. 

The girl furrows her eyebrows and, despite Gaara being the one to hand over her credit card, still hands the receipt to Lee. 

“Sorry,” Lee says, once they’re seated, an oversized bowl of curry steaming in front of her. 

Gaara shifts, and the hard plasticine of the booth seating complains beneath her. “Why are you apologizing for her?”

Lee looks down, and her hand rubs at the back of her neck in a familiar gesture. It used to be that Gaara would grab her wrist and still her, soothe those agitated knuckles with a stroke of her thumb. She doesn’t now. 

“I don’t know why that always happens.”

“It’s because you’re the taller one.” Gaara punctuates her sentence with a loud sip of her mango lassi. “She was trying to figure out which one of us is the boy.” 

“Oh,” Lee stuffs her mouth with a heaping spoonful of curry, a deflection tactic so she doesn’t have to explore the uncomfortable realities of that statement. She’s always preferred her life sunny-side up, unwilling to ever _not_ give someone the benefit of the doubt at first blush. Gaara watches the thought work its way across Lee’s face by inches, how her expression darkens. 

“Do you want some?” Gaara tilts her cup towards Lee in offering, before she can think better of it or even consider wiping the smear of her chapstick off the tip of the straw. It’s visible, too, obvious and berry-pink because it’s the expensive, tinted stuff - the kind that Gaara wouldn’t even own if not for the fact that Kankuro likes to spring for pricey cosmetics on birthdays. 

Lee holds a hand up and blocks the cup in its path across the sticky tabletop. _Oh._

“What’s in that?”

“Just mango and yogurt, I think.”

Lee shakes her head, but a little grin is making itself known at the corner of her mouth again. “I’m lactose intolerant.” 

“You’re the only lactose intolerant person I know who actually _avoids_ dairy,” Gaara tells her. 

Lee barks a laugh, and Gaara’s heart flutters like the beginning of a panic attack. She’d forgotten how straightforward it was to talk to Lee, how she never had to worry too much about filtering the bluntness of her thoughts to the sharpness of her tongue. Lee isn’t the type to judge someone just for being who they are, and this is how Gaara is: sharp, sarcastic, sometimes cruel. 

It doesn’t take long for them to segue into an easy back-and-forth, talking classmates and course loads and the upcoming tournament at the end of April. Lee carries most of the conversation, but it’s a burden she seems happy to shoulder. And in the moments Lee is chewing her way through a too-large mouthful of rice, Gaara has enough time to compose her thoughts. But they stick close to safe harbors, topics without jagged reefs - the ship of their conversation docks in the present, makes landfall in the near future. They steer away from the past. The words _high school_ don’t grace either of their lips. 

When Lee clears her plate with a smack of her lips and an, “Aaah, thank you for that, I was starving!” Gaara realizes she’s wearing a smile of her own. She bites her lip before she parts her mouth to speak, the question she’s been wanting to ask on the tip of her tongue. 

Before Gaara can form the words, Lee’s face tips down and she stares into her empty bowl. Her thick brows draw down, and her fist clenches around her spoon, mouth working in an angry little pout.

“You’re still thinking about it,” Gaara offers, voice low. She shifts her feet forward until one collides with Lee’s sneakers. Lee pulls her feet back, tucks them under the bench seat. Gaara keeps her foot right where it is, firmly in Lee’s space. 

“Why would that matter, if we’re friends?” Lee says suddenly, hotly. 

By the vein pulsing at Lee’s throat, Gaara estimates she has about thirty seconds to defuse Lee’s ire before she hops up, eyes blazing, and storms off to give the cashier a piece of her mind about stereotypes and assumptions. The more things change, the more things stay the same. 

“Are we?” 

Lee’s eyes widen. “Are we what?”

“Friends.” Gaara’s cup is empty, so she rolls the straw between her fingertips, pinches it until the plastic cracks. 

“O-of course we- !”

There’s no use waiting any longer. 

“Then why did you stop texting me?”

The frustrated flush of Lee’s face drains all at once. When she meets Gaara’s eyes, she’s so ghost-pale even the lines of her farmer’s tan seem to have vanished. Just as soon as her eyes find Gaara’s, they’re darting away again, dancing between flecks of drying condensation on the tabletop. 

“I … didn’t want to hold you back,” Lee says finally. Her voice is so low that Gaara almost wonders if she misheard. 

“What?” 

Lee’s fingers dig against the edge of the table, those neatly trimmed nails white to the nailbed, knuckles flexed. The tendons in the back of her hands are bulging. Gaara wants to reach for her. 

“I just- ” Lee falters. She looks younger then, her old self. Uncertainty and self-consciousness writ large on her face. “I didn’t want you to waste your time … ” Her feet kick forward now; the soles of her sneakers scuff the tile floor and give a screech before they land on either side of Gaara’s still outstretched foot. “ … with someone who wasn’t good enough for you.”

Gaara feels her mouth fall open at that, hears dimly the audible _pop_ as sugar-tacky lips separate. 

“ _You_ didn’t think you were good enough for _me_?” Gaara’s head is swimming. Lee was always, always the better of the two of them. Always the one to smile and try to make things better. Always the one with more friends than she knew what to do with, running ragged from one social engagement to the next. Always the one with her hand stretched out to pull someone to their feet. And always striving for improvement, never satisfied with her own status quo, even if it drove her to exhaustion. Too hard on herself, maybe, but genuinely, truly _good_ , in the way so few people are. If the better angels of humanity’s nature truly exist, one of those angels is sure to be Lee. 

Gaara is none of those things. She looks from Lee’s clenched fists to her own small, inadequate hands. The dark varnish of her nails flaking from lack of care. The scabs where she chews at the skin around her cuticles when she’s studying. She thinks of every time she could have been kinder. Every chance she’s had to make someone feel better when instead she made them feel worse. 

Even today, even just now with Lee and the girl at the register. She didn’t have to make Lee see that, didn’t have to make her stare at humanity’s ugly underbelly. She could have let Lee remain ignorantly blissful. But she drew her attention to it anyway. And made her upset. And now Gaara’s sitting here with this new, improved Lee, grown tall and strong and confident and Gaara … Gaara is just the same as she’s always been. Small and mean and so, so lonely. 

Lee’s been talking for a minute now, but Gaara hasn’t registered a word she’s said. She looks up. Lee’s lips are moving but the words come out mismatched. It’s like watching someone talk in a dream; nothing she’s saying makes any sense at all. 

“... you’re so smart, and- and funny, and _gorgeous_ , what was someone like me going to do with you? I’m just weird-looking and … not that bright. It was a miracle they even let me transfer into Konoha, and that was really only because of sports. You needed to have your own life. I- ”

Gaara’s hand finds Lee’s then, grabs her fingers and squeezes. On either side of Gaara’s foot, Lee’s legs are shaking, knees bouncing with nerves. Lee falls silent. Gaara’s teeth grit; her chin jerks in a quick shake of her head, clearing her thoughts. 

She can feel her lips working minutely, pursing and twitching around words she can’t formulate. She isn’t sure how to dispel the _wrongness_ of everything Lee has just said. Her hand clenches and unclenches around Lee’s. She presses the soft sole of her shoe to the laces on the top of one of Lee’s sneakers, holds her foot down until Lee’s leg stops moving. The other stays jittering. 

What Gaara finally settles on is: “You thought I cared about that?” 

Lee looks up at Gaara. Like an afterthought, her long thumb cranes up and strokes the side of Gaara’s hand. She bites her lip, straight white teeth denting the plush skin, a little swollen from the spice of her food. Her bangs have dried fluffy, but a few strands of hair are still stuck to her forehead here and there. Gaara can’t stop staring at her. 

The words come to Gaara’s lips before she can think to stop them. “Lee, I was _crazy_ about you.” 

Lee’s eyebrows cant up, and she exhales hard. A flicker of tension passes over her face, then departs as quickly as it arrived. She smiles, and there she is again: this bold, confident woman that Gaara hardly recognizes. 

She says, “Was?” but her voice wobbles on the vowel, betraying her.

Gaara isn’t sure what does it, in that moment, but she picks up a little piece of Lee’s confidence like it’s just sitting there on the table between them, holds it in her hands like it’s the last embers of a star, burning, and says, “My place is just a few miles from here.”

Lee flips their hands so hers is on top of Gaara’s and squeezes hard. Those dark eyes flash, her long lashes flutter. She leans forward, and Gaara catches a glimpse of the strap of her sports bra, bleach-white under the green of her tank top. All the breath catches in her throat. Dimly, she realizes Lee’s foot has stilled, and now it’s rubbing up the back of her ankle. 

“Let’s go!”

Lee leaves a few folded bills on the table when they leave, even though Gaara planned to leave nothing.

“You know they pool tips,” she retorts at Gaara’s disgruntled expression, waiting for Gaara to unlock the passenger door and let her into the car. “It wouldn’t be fair to penalize everyone who works there just because the cashier was rude.”

“Maybe everyone who works there sucks, too,” Gaara replies. She ignores the frisson of thrill that travels up her arm when she brushes Lee’s hand while they buckle their seatbelts. On the other side of the gear shift, Lee’s leg has taken up bouncing again, the muscle of her thigh tensing and relaxing so quickly her tan skin becomes a blur. Gaara tries to keep her eyes on the road and away from the downy, black hairs that speckle Lee’s thighs, the little goosebumps that rise up as the air conditioner finally kicks in and gusts across Lee’s bare skin. 

She almost misses the red light for the turn-off to the bridge switching to green while she stares at the tendons corded in Lee’s wrist, watching how they flex when she reaches out towards Gaara’s hand. Someone honks, and Lee’s hand falls back to her own knee, the protective bulk of the console between them. 

The bridge that spans the Naka River is known informally as Liplock Bridge. Primarily for the obvious reason: the observation point where cars can pull off and stare a half-mile downriver to where it bends at the border of the neighboring town. The pull-out is lit by a single lamppost at night, which makes it a favorite spot for teenagers to park at the end of their dates. The second reason is the locks. There are hundreds of them, dangling off the thin wire of the overlook balustrade, emblazoned with the names and initials of far too many ill-fated high school romances. 

Senior year, Lee and Gaara had gone to the overlook. They told nobody, not because it would have been frowned upon if people had known why they were going (though it would have been), but because it was meant to be a secret, just between them. They marked a padlock with the same black Sharpie that Gaara used to color her nails (and scrubbed off every afternoon in the bathroom, so her parents wouldn’t know she’d done it). They hung it there, labeled with their initials and the Chinese word for “love”, which Lee knew from the dramas her mother watched after her 5 AM morning runs, clutching tissues and teary-eyed over her coffee. 

“Do you think it’s still there?” Lee asks, as the car trundles past the overlook.

Gaara pauses with her foot on the gas pedal. Her heart drops. The car slows to a crawl.

When she was in high school, Gaara felt there was a great emptiness in her. When she pictured it in her head, it looked just like the water under the overlook: too deep to see the bottom. She felt it filling up by degrees when she stood at that chain-link fence, hand-in-hand with Lee, fingers icy from the wind and the cold metal of the padlock. She felt it shallowing when they lay down in the back seat of Lee’s mom’s Buick with a sleeping bag overtop them, thinking nobody would see them. She felt its presence when they crossed the stage at graduation, matching half-heart temporary tattoos under their graduation gowns, Gaara feeling so grown up for skipping a grade and graduating early. It deepened when they hugged goodbye before Lee ran off to take beaming photos with her many extended relatives, and Gaara walked home alone. Now that Gaara’s older, that emptiness is still there, but it’s larger than her hometown river ever was; it’s an ocean now, unfillable, unfathomable. 

“They cut them off every few years,” she says, and one hand drops from the steering wheel to pick at her cuticles. “Too many of them on one side make the bridge structurally unsound.”

Gaara thinks, not for the first time, about the type of person who would cut those locks, who would sever those symbols of romantic dedication, however juvenile and wrongheaded. Such a person must be miserable, she thinks, calloused. Or perhaps whoever it is finds a sick glee in it; there’s certainly a part of Gaara that would once have been able to relate to the simple joy of that destruction. 

She presses her foot down on the gas, speeds right off the bridge like something’s chasing them. 

Gaara’s apartment complex isn’t far, and the parking lot is sparsely spotted with scattered cars when Gaara throws hers into park - it’s mostly students living here, and most of them are far from home mid-afternoon on a Saturday. It feels secretive, sneaky the way it used to, walking Lee up to her apartment, even though there’s no one there to see. Gaara doesn’t even dare to brush her hand against Lee’s until the door is firmly shut behind them. 

The blinds are still closed from the early morning, when Gaara woke up before the sun had risen to fill two dozen water bottles at her kitchen sink, so she clicks on the light nearest the door. The flood of light brings her apartment into stark relief, and suddenly those nerves are back again, twanging hard in her chest like plucked strings. Lee doesn’t seem to notice, at least, hen-pecking something into her phone with a finger before she tucks it back into her sports bag, toeing her shoes off in Gaara’s entryway. 

Gaara hastily sweeps a handful of candy wrappers - crumpled on the coffee table where she fell asleep on the couch to the drone of infomercials last night - into a nearby trash can. She kicks yesterday’s bra under the couch with the dust bunnies. She can feel Lee’s presence behind her, watching her as she hastily tidies away the evidence of the vacancy of her life.

“Do you want something to drink?” Gaara asks without turning her head. 

She can hear the smile in Lee’s voice when she says, “Water would be great!” 

Gaara can’t look at her, skirting Lee’s presence to dip into the kitchenette, head bowed. She’s acutely aware of what it must look like, Lee standing tall amid the wreckage of Gaara’s solitary life. There’s an ocean inside Gaara, but she fills it up with the things scattered around these few small rooms - a handful of meticulously cared-for houseplants, squares of bittersweet dark chocolate, trashy romance novels she reads under the blanket with a flashlight even though she lives alone - so she never sees the bottom of it. She can’t know how deep it is. 

She cracks ice cubes from their plastic tray and turns on the tap, every sound, every motion suddenly magnified by the silence. Lee is just a shadow in her periphery, hovering, swaying ever so slightly in her own quiet battle against nerves. 

Their fingers touch when Gaara passes Lee the glass, not raising her eyes to look at Lee’s face, gaze fixed somewhere around Lee’s ankles. The cuffs of her athletic socks are bright white, with green stripes across the toes denting the uniform tan of Gaara’s carpet. There’s a movement, then, the flex of Lee’s fingers and toes - clenching and releasing. Lee’s hand rises as if to reach for her, makes it halfway to its destination, hesitates.

Suddenly, boldly, Lee cups her hand around Gaara’s hip and pulls her close. 

Gaara should step back, but Lee’s proximity warms her, draws her closer. She hears Lee swallow and looks up. The column of Lee’s long throat is moving, and Gaara’s eyes trail up, up past the dampness now on the Cupid’s bow of Lee’s lips, past the scatter of freckles across her nose, past the flutter of Lee’s long lower lashes to find herself being watched in turn. 

Lee smiles hesitantly, and Gaara regains her nerve. 

She stands up on her tiptoes and hooks a hand around the back of Lee’s neck, then pulls Lee’s face down into a kiss with the sinking of her body back to earth. It starts soft, chaste. Lee’s lips are cold from the water, but they heat quickly at the press of Gaara’s lips. There’s a _clunk_ somewhere distant - Lee setting down her glass - and then hands are drifting up the curve Gaara’s waist, one warm and dry, one damp and cold. The dissonance of the sensations makes her shiver. 

Gaara’s fingers fiddle in the stray hairs at the nape of Lee’s neck, rucking them up and smoothing them down again. Her other hand finds the hem of Lee’s tanktop and rubs at it absently, tracing the firm muscle of Lee’s belly. Lee parts her lips, and Gaara presses her advantage, slipping her tongue inside to taste the heat of Lee’s mouth. Lee’s hands go tight on Gaara’s waist before she responds in turn, licking back into the space between Gaara’s lips. 

Gaara’s hands are almost itching with pent-up longing, eager to touch Lee wherever Lee will let her. Her hand slides around the side of Lee’s neck and down past her collarbones, while the other creeps up under the hem of Lee’s shirt, up over her stomach and ribs until they meet in the middle, rubbing across Lee’s chest. Lee makes a little breathy noise, and Gaara can feel her nipples hardening even through the fabric of her bra, pushing closer towards the gentle circling of Gaara’s palms. 

Lee’s hands work their way around Gaara’s waist to the small of her back, long fingers up and under the scratchy fabric of Gaara’s miserable polo shirt. Then Lee’s pawing at the space between Gaara’s shoulder blades, fumbling with - something. 

Gaara parts from her just enough to ask, “What are you doing?”

Lee’s cheeks go ruddy. 

“Your bra?” She ducks her head, and her bangs fall to conceal her eyes. “But if you don’t-” 

Gaara reaches behind her own back and grabs one of Lee’s hands, drags it deliberately around her ribs to the space between her breasts. 

“It hooks in the front.” 

Lee’s eyes brighten. There’s a tiny _snick_ of metal, and then Gaara’s breasts sag forward, only to be caught by Lee’s hands under the now-loose band of her bra. Lee’s fingers brush her nipples, and Gaara’s knees wobble. She’s suddenly acutely aware of the cling of her panties between her legs, rapidly dampening. 

“My bedroom is that way,” she exhales shakily across Lee’s mouth. Lee is still gently trailing her fingers around Gaara’s areolae, and it’s incredibly hard to focus as she starts walking Lee backwards towards her bedroom door. 

Once they’re past the threshold (Lee pushing the door closed behind them with a little, self-conscious kick of one stockinged foot), Lee refocuses all of her attention on Gaara. In just moments she’s pulled Gaara’s shirt up over her head, discarding it to the floor, and then shucked the bra down Gaara’s arms until Gaara’s standing, bare-chested, in front of her. Gaara is suddenly acutely aware of her muffin-top, the stretch marks on the tops of her breasts, the fact that she hasn’t shaved her armpits in weeks. But Lee is looking at her like she wants to eat her alive. A red tongue darts out to wet the corner of Lee’s kiss-swollen bottom lip. Gaara almost wants to cross her arms over her chest - her familiar posture of self-defense - but she channels that urge instead into reaching for Lee, tugging at the hem of her tank top. 

Lee pauses in her study just long enough for Gaara to pull her top off in turn, Lee’s sports bra done away with much more easily than the complex fasteners of Gaara’s practical black underwire. Gaara gets barely any time at all to admire Lee’s shirtless form, the blushing bronze of her skin and the faint lines of her muscled abdomen, before Lee’s hands and mouth are back on her, distracting her. Lee’s hands stroke the pink indents where the straps of her bra dug in, mouth on Gaara’s neck. Her nervousness fades with the faint coconut scent of Lee’s conditioner and the salt of sweat underneath that, Lee’s hair tickling her nose as she works her way down the side of Gaara’s throat, sucking gentle kisses into the sensitive skin. Gaara feels herself growing wetter. Her nipples harden as Lee cups her breasts and rubs them to points with her thumbs. Her skin quietly thrills and pinpricks with goosebumps when Lee fastens her mouth around the jut of one collarbone and sucks. Her head tilts back, loose and easy and overcome with the desire for _more_ , baring her throat so Lee doesn’t stop what she’s doing. 

Lee turns Gaara so she’s up against her own bedroom wall, just the cool plaster and Lee’s warm hands holding her up. Lee plays with her breasts, pushing them up, rubbing at them, touching them all over, mouth trailing ever-so-slowly lower, until Gaara’s a panting, shaking mess. Lee’s mouth finds purchase on one of Gaara’s nipples and Gaara’s knees knock together under the sensation, Lee’s lips and tongue and the barest hint of teeth rolling over fire-bright skin, everything a haze of feeling. Someone’s moaning, the sound throaty and dark, so explicit that Gaara’s almost embarrassed to overhear it until she realizes it’s coming from her mouth, her vocal cords. 

She almost cries out when Lee’s mouth abandons her breasts, feeling bereft as Lee trails kisses down the plumpness of her stomach. But then Lee’s hands pluck coyly at Gaara’s waistband, and Gaara’s fingers hurry to unfasten the buckle of her belt. Lee’s hands, suddenly eager, bump Gaara’s hands aside and unbutton her pants in a flurry. The sound of the zipper’s teeth parting is barely audible over Gaara’s groan, as Lee pushes the palm of her hand against Gaara’s mound while she pulls the zipper down. 

Gaara’s pants and panties hit the floor at the same time, the air of the room stark cold against the wet heat between her thighs and Lee’s mouth hovering just over her pubic hair. Gusts of warm breath make her shivery and disoriented, focused in on that singular sensation. Lee’s lips, the shape of her tongue just visible inside her open mouth, are just close enough to tease, just far enough away that Gaara’s hips stutter towards her, an invitation or a plea. 

Lee nudges Gaara’s knees apart with her hands, until she’s in close between Gaara’s spread thighs. The angle looks uncomfortable from Gaara’s vantage, Lee too tall to fit all the way between Gaara’s legs when she’s standing spread-eagled like this. Lee hums, a low little noise of consideration that has Gaara wobbly from the hint of vibration so close to her groin. 

Then Lee says, “I know!” all brightness and sunshine. She shifts and gets Gaara’s knees up over her shoulders. Gaara’s feet leave the ground as Lee braces her knees under her and - _holy fuck_ \- stands up with Gaara suspended over her. Gaara throws her head back so far she almost bangs it against the wall in her surprise, scrabbling for purchase at the paint. She finds herself staring at the ceiling, closer to it than she’s ever been, her heels dug into the space between Lee’s strong shoulders. 

“Is this okay?” Lee pants, the heat of her words still focused directly over Gaara’s crotch. “It’s a little more comfortable for me, but I can put you down if you-”

Gaara just nods mutely, not trusting her own voice to say anything even bordering on coherent, tightening her legs around Lee’s face as Lee’s hands come up to cup the underside of her thighs and support her. 

Lee smiles softly, barely a millimeter from Gaara’s body, and Gaara almost comes just from that, hands slapping at the wall behind her. 

“Okay,” Lee breathes, and then leans forward. 

Her tongue laps up the seam of Gaara’s lips, spreading her wide without using her fingers at all, _up_ and then _in_. Lee’s tongue draws a line of heat right to Gaara’s core. Gaara starts to tremble as Lee licks her softly, probing for the sensations that Gaara likes. Gaara’s a little self-conscious to be so easy, because she likes _everything_ Lee tries on her. She loves every pass of Lee’s tongue and wet noise of her lips, every gentle swirl around Gaara’s hard clit and every kiss pressed to the dampness of her. She’s hardly aware of how much noise she’s making, but she knows it must be loud, and is quietly grateful that none of her neighbors are home to hear her like this, completely undone by mere minutes of Lee’s mouth on her. 

Then Lee’s lips fix around her clit and suck gently, and Gaara falls apart completely. 

It doesn’t take much, Gaara pent up for too long, on a hair trigger from sensation, and Lee’s tongue far too skilled around that little bud, before Gaara’s shaking her way through an orgasm. Her thighs clench so hard around Lee’s face she’s scared she might cut off Lee’s breathing, her clit throbbing in time with Lee’s motions. 

Lee pulls back from her with a soft, damp smack of separation, her mouth wet and wicked when she smiles and asks, “More?”

Gaara nods hard, a bit desperate, and her fingers clench in Lee’s hair as Lee dives back in to lick at her, her tongue funneled and working just-so on Gaara’s clit, fast and precise. There’s a shift, Gaara’s vision rocking and tilting for a minute, and then Lee’s slipping two long fingers inside her. Gravity does the work for them, pushing them to the hilt until Gaara’s entrance is braced against the jut of Lee’s hand. She groans - fuck, they’re so _deep_. She can feel the bulge of every last one of Lee’s knuckles. 

Lee works her fingers gently, finding that spot inside Gaara with pinpoint accuracy and stroking it, matching her rhythm to the soft suction of her tongue. Gaara’s acutely aware of every sensation, her nerves alight as Lee plays her like a skilled musician on a favorite instrument, bowing her slowly to a crescendo. Lee’s tongue on her clit sets the beat, and her fingers rubbing against the inside of her serves as the melody, every motion a song unto itself. 

Her second orgasm builds inside her softly, just lapping at the edges of her consciousness until it overtakes her like a wave takes the shore, slowly and then all at once. She loses her voice halfway through, no longer able to sustain the moans she’s been letting out since Lee started taking her apart. 

She’s still shaking when Lee turns and lays her gently on the mattress, pressing a kiss to the inside of one of Gaara’s sweat-damp thighs. 

Through hazy eyes she sees Lee licking the worst of the moisture from around her lips, sucking the cum off her fingers, her tongue fastidious. With a lazy motion of one leg, Gaara hooks the back of Lee’s thigh and pulls her closer, until Lee is sprawled atop her, legs interlaced. She can feel Lee properly now, every sweat-slick inch of her skin, though Lee still has her shorts and socks on. 

Lee kisses the corner of Gaara’s mouth. Gaara turns her head to capture Lee’s lips fully, biting at the heat-swollen plush of Lee’s lower lip when she does. Lee’s breathing goes tight; Gaara can feel the air catching in her lungs where their chests are pressed together. Gaara rocks her hips up against Lee’s leg between her thighs, the motion of her body shoving the hem of Lee’s shorts higher. 

She wants _more_. She feels insatiable, even as Lee cranes back and regards her with faint wonder written across her features. 

“More?” Lee asks, and it’s all Gaara can do to nod in between the rub of her wet, swollen folds against the flexion of Lee’s knee. 

Lee tumbles them both over on the bed, lying back, and Gaara straddles one of Lee’s muscular thighs, leaving a little spot of damp there. Lee reaches out and nudges at Gaara’s crotch with her fingers, until Gaara cants her hips forward enough to make space for Lee to plunge three long fingers inside her. It’s exquisite. Gaara can feel every knuckle, riding Lee’s fingers, braced against the flex of her thigh. Lee hasn’t shaved above the knee, and the scratch of downy hair on Gaara’s sensitive inner thighs is just another point of delicious sensation as she rides, and rides, and rides. 

The meat of Lee’s palm rubs against Gaara’s clit with every crook of fingers inside her, and that sends her shaking. Gaara’s no longer aware of distinct climaxes - it’s like she’s suspended in a single, continuous orgasm, her walls clenching and pulsing with every motion of Lee’s hand, her mouth open around a sustained moan. At some point she loses control of her arms and lays forward onto Lee’s chest, shaking and shuddering with her mouth wet against Lee’s neck, those long, perfect fingers still working her apart. 

She must lose track of herself at some point, because the next thing she notices is Lee’s hand gently stroking her sweaty hair from her face. The fingers of Lee’s other hand are still inside her, but they’ve stilled now, just the pulsing of Gaara’s walls driving her into ever-weakening series of fast-fading orgasms. 

“Are you okay?” Lee murmurs to the spot on Gaara’s forehead where her port wine birthmark stains her skin. 

Gaara nods absently, a weak and shaky hand coming up to push gently at Lee’s shoulder. 

“You have to stop,” she breathes, “or I’ll die.” 

Lee goes to draw back, and Gaara clenches her thighs tight all of a sudden.

“Wait,” she gasps. “Go slow.” 

The gentle motion of Lee’s fingers leaving her tips her over the edge into a final orgasm, her thighs too tired to even properly shake, just quiet twitches of sensation. Lee lays her wet hand on Gaara’s hip, and Gaara collapses on her chest with a sigh. 

“Give me just a minute,” Gaara breathes, eyelids fluttering halfway into sleep, “and I’ll take care of you, too.”

Lee’s thumb rubs her hip and leaves a little trail of slickness behind. “Don’t worry about it,” she says quietly. “I’m just fine.”

It’s a monumental effort for Gaara to sit up then, but she forces her way through, braced on shaking arms so she can glare at Lee properly. The pattern of this conversation is all too familiar, this ritual of self-sacrifice, Lee always doing for others and never for herself. 

Gaara’s eyes narrow. 

“No,” she says, her voice unexpectedly harsh. “Tell me what you want. _Whatever_ you want. I’ll do it for you.”

Lee’s face has gone florid, her eyes wide and her lips pressed tight. Her embarrassment is a stark contrast to the wetness still smearing her face and hand, the way her knee is still shifting up and down slowly beneath where Gaara is sitting on her, the dusky peaks of her hard nipples. 

Gaara licks her lips absently, staring down at Lee under her. 

“Well?” she presses. “What do you want? Fingers, my mouth … I have a strap-on, too- ”

“That,” Lee whispers, barely parting her lips. “That one.”

“The strap-on?”

Lee squeaks, nodding mutely. 

The flush of Lee’s face has spread down her neck and onto her chest, all the way to the edge of her hardened nipples. Lee’s breasts are small, barely a handful when Gaara cups them and draws a thumb across the peaks. Lee’s breathing hitches - they’re sensitive, too, and Gaara plies a few more breathy noises from Lee’s mouth with the motion of her thumbs, until kissing the damp pout of Lee’s parted lips is irresistible. The kiss is sloppy, hurried, more a distraction for Gaara to maneuver both her knees between Lee’s spread thighs than a true attempt at romance. Lee’s mouth still tastes like Gaara, the side of one cheek and her chin still wet with it. When they break apart, Lee’s pupils have swallowed up the dark of her irises, her hands cupping Gaara’s ass and rubbing gently. 

Gaara kisses the corner of Lee’s parted mouth, the rounded point of her chin, the hollow of her throat, the hard bone and muscle at the center of her chest. As she trails her body down Lee’s, their nipples brush and they both gasp. Gaara’s whole body feels like a live wire, a continuous roll of sensation and heat, and she rubs herself against Lee like a cat, mapping Lee’s body with the swell of her breasts, the softness of her stomach. 

She has no idea if Lee is enjoying this the way she is, but when she drags down to the apex of Lee’s thighs, they spread even further. Lee’s shorts are rucked all the way up to her hips, the barest edges of hair visible on her inner thighs, but they’re still in the way of Gaara’s goal. She makes short work of them, and Lee’s panties too, all in a single motion. Between her legs, Gaara can see the red of Lee’s lips, flush with arousal, and a hint of dampness where they don’t quite touch. Gaara’s nostrils flare. Lee smells unbelievably alluring, like salt and musk and girl. 

“Can I taste you first?” Gaara asks. 

Lee doesn’t say anything, but she nods, and her thighs splay even wider. Her labia part and that hint of wetness between blooms - Gaara can see _everything_ , and Lee is _beautiful_. She’s soaking when Gaara noses her way down the thatch of Lee’s pubic hair to the center of her. She smells like sex and sweat and heady arousal. Gaara sticks her tongue out and licks just once, gently across her clit, and Lee’s thighs flex and tremble where she’s braced her hands. 

Gaara laps at her again and again, keeping a steady rhythm and feeling the moisture beneath her chin grow with every pass of her pointed tongue. Lee is so quiet - such a contrast to herself outside of the bedroom - that it’s hard to tell exactly what she likes. Gaara has to guide herself by Lee’s breathing and the motion of her hips. A hitch of breath - good. A shifting of her hips down, closer to Gaara’s mouth - better. A quiet, steady panting - not quite enough. A jolt of her thighs inward - too much. 

Soon enough, Lee is rocking against Gaara’s face, almost fucking herself on Gaara’s mouth, though Gaara hasn’t strayed any lower than the warm swell of her clit and the soft skin around it. When Gaara works her jaw open a little, to lay long, flat licks against Lee’s clit, she can feel Lee’s entrance pulsing against her chin, fluttering closed on nothing. 

She sits back just enough to see the disappointed expression on Lee’s face and holds up a hand. 

“Do you want more?” she asks, and bites back a grin when Lee’s mouth opens, stunned, saying _There’s more?_ without her ever having to speak a word. “Fingers?” 

Lee’s already nodding at the prospect, but Gaara continues, “I have gloves, if that would make you more comfortable. Dental dams, too. I probably should have brought that up before now. I can get one out if you want.”

Lee shakes her head, the flush spreading down her chest to the base of her ribcage. She has a hand over her mouth when she murmurs, “Gloves?” so quietly that Gaara barely hears her. “Gloves would be good.”

Gaara separates from Lee and climbs towards the nightstand, where she has neatly arranged her pilfered spoils from the campus health authority in tidy rows in a nondescript shoebox. She cracks the perforated seam of the untouched cardboard of the box of gloves with her thumb, sweaty hands leaving water marks on the label. Then she sits back with a glove dangling from her fingers, the smell of latex and powder heavy in the air. 

“You’re not allergic to latex, are you?”

“Yeah,” Lee says absently, her eyes fixed somewhere around the midpoint of Gaara’s bare chest. 

Gaara clambers off the bed with a start, and Lee’s eyes fix back on her face, confused.

“Wait, no. Sorry, what did you say?” Lee’s gaze has already drifted from Gaara’s eyes down to her mouth, which Gaara realizes belatedly is still smeared with Lee’s juices. She licks the worst of it from her lower lip and shakes the glove in Lee’s direction. 

“Lee,” Gaara says very carefully. “I need to know if you’re allergic to latex. I don’t want you to have a reaction while I’m fingering you.”

At the word _fingering_ Lee’s eyes go just slightly crossed, her hips shifting on the bedsheet. She’s biting her lip, long fingers clutching the sheet in a starburst spread of wrinkles. Her hair has halfway slipped from its bun, and dark strands of it curl around her face like the shadow of a fallen halo. 

“I’m not allergic,” she says, like she’s halfway in a dream. Her gaze is wandering Gaara’s whole body now, slow and sensual as a physical caress. 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure,” she repeats. She reaches out and grabs Gaara in one damp hand. Her index finger almost touches her thumb around Gaara’s wrist when she tugs Gaara towards her. “Come back here, please. I miss you.”

“I’m right here,” Gaara mutters, but she lets herself be pulled back onto the bed and into the crook of Lee’s arm. 

Lee cups the side of Gaara’s face, scratches her fingers up into the short hair in front of Gaara’s ear, and pulls her into a slow kiss. They both taste like each other now, like wetness and heat and longing. Lee’s tongue slips between Gaara’s lips and makes a space for itself inside her, until Gaara is panting again, completely abandoned to the warmth of Lee’s touch. 

Lee’s other hand finds the cap of Gaara’s shoulder and smooths down the entire length of her body, trailing along every dip and curve, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Gaara shifts herself thoughtlessly until she’s kneeling between Lee’s legs again, the glove half-forgotten and smashed against Lee’s shoulder where Gaara’s holding on for dear life. 

It’s a hardship to part, but the way Lee shifts her hips wide and gives Gaara a little smile through lowered eyelashes makes it not seem so difficult at all. It takes a moment of fumbling to get the glove on right - Gaara almost puts it on backwards, first, then tries to put her ring finger and pinky in the same hole - but soon enough, Gaara is settling back between Lee’s legs and licking her open again. 

It doesn’t take long to find that same rhythm that has Lee breathing hard, the cant of her hips following the motion of Gaara’s mouth. Gaara trails her gloved hand up the inside of Lee’s thigh until she finds Lee’s center, parts the folds, and slips one finger inside. Lee clenches down on her immediately, an almost reflexive flexion as her thighs go tight around Gaara’s ears. 

Gaara starts up a gentle pattern, just a soft, shallow rubbing in time with the movements of her tongue. Lee is almost too sensitive for more, flinching back whenever Gaara thrusts too hard or too deep, so she keeps things gentle, slow. Lee’s breathing pitches up, and there’s a pool of moisture building in the palm of Gaara’s gloved hand as she rubs at her, licking in time. 

A hand fists in Gaara’s hair and tugs, hard. 

“Stop,” Lee blurts, “stop.” 

Gaara pulls back in a single motion, wipes her damp mouth with the back of her hand. She shifts her jaw and hears it crack, tilts the ache out of the back of her neck.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, but- ” Lee’s chest is heaving, her arms spread out to either side of her and hands fisted so tightly in the sheets Gaara can almost see tears forming in the threads. “If you keep doing that, I’m going to come.” 

Gaara barely restrains herself from rolling her eyes. “That’s okay, we can just go again- ”

“No,” Lee interrupts her. “No, I really can’t- ” Her face is fiery and her voice a bare whisper when she says, “Not more than once. It takes me a long time, and then I’m too sensitive after to … ” She trails off into a mumble, eyes falling away from Gaara and onto the sheets.

Gaara feels a little bit bad for her - she herself has always been multiorgasmic, hardly needing any time at all to be ready to go again, and more often in her solo sessions stopping due to exhaustion than any real satisfaction - but she nods once in understanding. 

Lee has picked up steam in the meantime, but her voice still shakes when she says, “It was really good, but I want you to- ” Her mouth opens, closes, empty around the word. 

“You want me to fuck you,” Gaara fills in the blanks. 

Lee nods, wide eyes taking up half her blushing face. “N-not that you weren’t-!” she amends. “I just-!”

“It’s fine,” Gaara assures her. “I get it.” 

She rubs Lee’s hip gently in reassurance as she stands to retrieve a second unmarked shoebox from under her bed. She pulls the strap-on out and holds it out to Lee for her inspection - it’s a modest size (because Gaara doesn’t consider herself particularly adventurous), though a blistering neon pink (because the only other option was a disturbing ‘flesh’ color that hadn’t looked like human skin at all). Lee nods, expression somehow both mortified and hungry at once. 

Gaara wastes a few moments fiddling with the straps and fasteners, the whole contraption far too complex for a mind half-blank with arousal. She tightens the straps until the rough edge of the polyester blend cuts into the swell of her hips and thighs, leaving unflattering little bulges between. She feels altogether ridiculous, standing there at the side of the bed with the strap-on bobbing comedically in front of her. 

But when Gaara looks up, Lee’s raking her eyes over Gaara’s body again, lips half-parted. Her hand has drifted absently across her hip and she’s rubbing at herself, just gently across the top of her mound, not quite all the way between her legs, panting in time with the small motions of her fingers. Gaara has never seen anything so erotic in her life. Lee is a single long, sinuous line of muscle on the bed, all blood-flushed skin and obscenely spread knees. 

“Uh,” Gaara says, hoping her nervousness doesn’t give away the fact that she’s never done this before, “I’ve only used this on myself- ” _Nailed it._ “- and it’s been cleaned, but I have condoms, too, if that would make you more comfortable … ”

“Uh-huh,” Lee says, the pattern of her fingers picking up, moving more quickly. 

Gaara stalls out for a moment, just watching the tendons flex in Lee’s hand, before she remembers herself and grabs a strip of condoms from the box at her bedside. She climbs back up onto the bed in a hurry and tears at one of the foil wrappers with her teeth, fingers numb in her haste. The wrapper splits right down the middle, and the condom with it, leaving Gaara clutching a slippery handful of useless rubber, foil dangling from her lips. 

Lee blinks twice, her mouth dropping open. A giggle worms its way between her lips, and her chest starts shaking. 

Gaara glowers at the offending prophylactic and throws it to the floor in a fit of pique, tearing off another packet from the foil strip and maneuvering it far more delicately open this time. She’s still scowling even as she unrolls the condom down to the base of the strap-on. Her hands clasp on her hips, brandishing the thing like a weapon. 

Lee’s laughing so hard that it forces a burp out of her, and she covers her mouth with an apologetic gasp. She stares at her hands over her mouth with crossed eyes, scandalized at her body’s betrayal. 

It’s adorable, and Gaara is lost to it. She thinks maybe she should be embarrassed, or offended - after all, Lee is laughing at her - but she can’t bring herself to be anything but charmed. She just kneels there, stunned for a moment between Lee’s spread legs, watching Lee’s body shake with laughter. Lee’s so beautiful it’s hard to think, even harder to move forward, but Gaara does it because she can’t bear to not be touching Lee for even one more moment. Soon she’s crouched over Lee, the longer straps of the harness trailing down to brush Lee’s thighs. 

“Do you need lube?” Gaara asks, once Lee’s laughter has faded to silence. 

Lee blinks at her for a moment, shoulders still trembling from the after-effects of her giggle fit. Then she does the sexiest thing Gaara’s ever seen anyone do, even counting the things she’s only imagined between the pages of her trashiest, bawdiest romance novels. Lee reaches down between her own legs and rubs all the way down to her own entrance, then pulls her fingers back up and looks at the slick glistening there. She spreads two fingers, and her wetness leaves little clinging strands in the space between them. 

“No,” she says, “I think I’m okay. You can go ahead.” 

Gaara’s hips move towards her almost on instinct then: just a quick brush of her fingers as a guidepost, and then she’s sinking slowly into Lee. Lee gasps, her thighs flexed around Gaara’s hips, and her legs come up and hold Gaara there for a moment, digging into the back of Gaara’s thighs. 

Gaara waits, Lee’s wet heat a temptation pressed up against her, a contrast the cold ring of metal and the impersonal, rubbery base of the strap-on. After what seems like an age, Lee nods, and her heel gives a little nudge at Gaara’s ass. Gaara starts to move, slowly at first, then picking up pace in response to Lee’s little motions and sighs. She sits back a little on her knees, pulls Lee closer to her, feels more than hears Lee’s breathing get tight and quick. There’s not much in the way of sensation - a dull throb as the rubber base of the dildo presses just above her clit at the apex of each thrust, the drag of Lee’s skin around the outside of her legs, the clutching of Lee’s hands on her forearms - but the true joy is in being able to watch Lee fall apart, to know that she’s the one who’s making Lee feel this. 

Lee’s chest has gone a patchy red, the blush washing out the freckles on her face and collarbones. Gaara wants to map every inch of that dusky skin with her mouth and hands, wants to memorize the tanlines on Lee’s arms where her skin goes from pale to dark, wants to know the way Lee’s hair falls in her eyes and sticks sweaty to her forehead. She could watch the ripple of the muscles of Lee’s stomach in response to her motions forever, could spend the rest of her life in study of the way Lee’s breathing changes when she pulls out, then thrusts up, in, rubbing across that spot inside Lee that makes her eyes flutter closed. 

Lee is shockingly quiet, even moreso than when Gaara was eating her out. It’s a surprise - Gaara thought she would be more vocal, bolder. She remembers the way Lee used to catch Gaara watching her changing in the locker room after softball practices, how Lee would make eye contact over her shoulder, those thick eyebrows raised in surprise at Gaara’s frankness. She remembers Lee dragging the dusty white of her uniform shirt off her shoulder deliberately slowly in response to Gaara’s blush. She remembers Lee’s frantic babble in between stolen kisses behind the gym while they waited for their rides home. She remembers how Lee would whisper nonsense when Gaara sucked at her neck, leaving marks that would have Lee wearing her most hideous orange scarf even in the warmth of spring. She wonders where that Lee has gone, what has made her so shy. It’s as if her personality has reversed - where she was once awkward and uncertain in public, she’s now assertive, almost proud … but with Gaara, in private, she’s gone from boisterous to near-mute. 

Gaara navigates her way in and out of Lee by the hitch of Lee’s breath. She hopes Lee will let her do this again, will let her re-learn the patterns of her desire. Gaara thrusts all the way into Lee, grinds up against her, and Lee lets out a tiny moan, hand over her mouth to muffle it. It might be the sweetest sound Gaara has ever heard, so she grinds against Lee again, slower this time, a deliberate circling of her hips. 

“Oh,” Lee breathes. Gaara looks up from where Lee’s parted around her to see Lee biting her thumb. She repeats the motion, watches Lee’s eyes go a bit unfocused, long eyelashes fluttering as her eyes close. Gaara sees the dents forming in the flesh of Lee’s thumb from her straight, white teeth. 

“I want to hear you,” Gaara tells her. 

Lee’s eyes snap open, fixed now on Gaara’s face. Gaara’s skin heats under Lee’s gaze. Slowly, Lee drops her hand from her mouth. She shifts her hips towards Gaara’s, an invitation. Gaara accepts with another slow, circling thrust. 

“Mmm.” It’s barely a sound at all, more vibration than voice, and Lee bites her lip in lieu of her hand. 

“Come on,” Gaara urges her, grinding harder now, a slow, deliberate pressure on Lee’s clit and rubbing hard inside her. Her voice comes out rough, raspy with exertion and frustration. “I want to hear you.” 

Lee’s eyes sink closed. Her hand finds Gaara’s hand in the sheet and grabs it hard enough that Gaara feels her bones creaking. Lee rocks her hips, and Gaara copies the motion. She pulls back just as Lee does, until the strap-on is just barely in her entrance. 

Gaara thrusts slowly, shallowly, catching the sound of the short breaths escaping Lee, so far from the full-throated moan she wants to hear. Lee tilts her hips up, the expression on her face almost pleading. Gaara teases her for a moment, just making gentle motions right at her entrance, watching the way Lee’s hips cant upwards in response to her thrusts. Lee pants, breathy little noises escaping her, her face screwed up in desperation, eyebrows drawn down and mouth pursed into a pout. Just the look of her - the hard peaks of her nipples and the modest swell of her breasts, the line of her neck when she twists her head in response to Gaara’s movements, hiding her face against the pillow - it’s almost enough to push Gaara over the edge herself. 

“Ahh,” Lee finally says, “please.”

Gaara drives home, sinking into her up to the base. She thrusts her hips hard, grinds up against Lee’s clit with slow deliberation. 

“Harder,” Lee moans, and Gaara can do nothing but oblige her. She pounds into Lee as hard as she can manage, until the bed is shaking with it, headboard clattering against the wall. She briefly says a prayer of thanks that her bed is against the exterior wall of the complex, but quickly loses that thought as Lee’s legs clench around her, tugging her close. Lee’s voice is louder now, urging Gaara on, half-indistinct syllables and cut off words and repeating Gaara’s name. 

When Lee comes, she wraps around Gaara like a vice, legs around Gaara’s hips and arms around her shoulders, head pressed hard to the space where Gaara’s shoulder meets her neck as she shakes. It’s enough to push Gaara into the throes of her own climax, a combination of the pressure of the base of the strap-on against her clit and Lee’s warm heat trembling against her, their chests crushed together and Lee’s breath warm on her neck. 

When Gaara pulls out, Lee has tears in her eyes. They catch like dew in her lower lashes, spill down the sides of her face to dampen the pillow next to the flecks of Gaara’s sweat. Her eyes are clenched shut, eyebrows drawn down into a single, furrowed line.

 _Fuck,_ Gaara thinks immediately. But this is not where her confidence ends, so she leans forward and wipes the tears from Lee’s face with her thumb. 

“Are you okay?” Gaara licks the tears off her fingers, tasting the salt.

Lee’s head barely moves in a nod. The flush is slowly draining from her face and chest. The taut muscles of her chest and shoulders have fallen lax, and she’s laid back against the pillow, hair fully fallen from her bun and splayed around her head. 

“Sorry,” she says, voice tight with emotion. “I’m not upset. I just cry sometimes when I have a really good, um-” Her voice drops low. “- orgasm.”

“Oh.” It’s the only thing Gaara can think to say. Everything feels tremulous and tender. Fragile, right down to her skin and the distance between them.

Gaara disentangles herself awkwardly from the harness one-handed, loath to stop touching Lee for even a moment. Lee’s hand is still clutching her hand, eyes still shut tight from overwhelm. The moment the contraption hits the floor, Lee is tugging her back in, until Gaara’s curled up beside her with their bodies not quite touching, judiciously avoiding the sizeable wet spot between them on the sheet. 

Sweat is drying fast on their skin, and Gaara imagines Lee must be as chilly as she is. She fumbles the comforter up over both of them, just up to the waist, so she can still look at Lee’s bare chest. Lee hooks an arm around Gaara’s waist and pulls her closer. Gaara’s hip lands right on the squelchiest part of the bed, but it’s hard to be grumpy about it when Lee’s arm is around her, fingers drawing patterns on the dip of her waist, looking fucked-out with her lips bitten pink and the smell of Gaara still on her mouth. 

“It’s a long drive back to Konoha … do you need a ride?” Gaara says it quietly, face to the pillow and Lee’s spreading pool of tangled hair. 

Lee chuckles, and her eyes finally open. She looks down at Gaara, and her expression is soft, wondrous. “I missed the bus,” she says. “A few hours ago. I told them to leave without me.” 

Gaara takes Lee’s empty hand and picks it up, playing with her fingers idly, bringing them to her mouth to kiss. “You should stay the night,” she says, faking for casual, like it’s a suggestion and not a plea. “I can order pizza.” She pauses. “They have a cheeseless one, I think. I’ll drive you back in the morning.” 

“Do you want to go to the overlook tomorrow?” Lee asks instead, as if her spending the night in Gaara’s bed was a foregone conclusion. “We could bring a lock.”

Gaara finds a dried bit of cum between the webs of Lee’s fingers and licks it off. She frowns. 

“What’s the point, if they just cut it down again in a year or two?”

“Well, then, in a year or two we’ll go back and bring another lock.”

Gaara freezes. It’s the sort of statement of reckless commitment that she would have expected from Lee, age 17; but didn’t know to expect from Lee, age 21. Somewhere deep inside her, sand starts filling in a trench at the bottom of the ocean. It’s not enough to force her up onto dry land, but staring down into it feels a little bit less like standing on a precipice, and a little bit more like standing on the coast. Even Lee with her smile like the surface of the sun couldn’t evaporate the ocean inside her, but … it’s a start. 

“I have locks,” Gaara says finally, quietly. “Extras, for the team’s travel lockers.” 

Lee grins, and her fingers tap the varnish on the back of Gaara’s nails. “You’ve moved on from marker to nail polish, though.” 

“I have markers,” Gaara grouses. She turns and tucks her head into Lee’s armpit, scowling. Lee laughs at the tickle of Gaara’s grumbled breath across the surface of her skin. “You should give me your number,” Gaara adds, “so I can text you after I drop you off. To let you know I made it home.”

“Of course,” Lee says, but the tone of her voice is indulgent, like she knows that Gaara’s making excuses not to be forgotten again. 

Gaara gropes behind her for her phone. She grabs it from the stand on the bedside table that serves as both charging station and bedroom clock and holds it out for Lee to enter her number. The moment Lee has saved her contact, Gaara snatches it back and fires off a short text: _This is Gaara. Save my number._

She hears the chime of Lee’s text alert from her sports bag, volume all the way up, even through the bedroom door.


End file.
